7
The extension in the study was the obvious choice. Even with the family outside someone was bound to come in and catch her if she was out in the open on the main line in the little alcove under the stairs. So she sat down at Dad's desk and reached for the telephone.
"Back so soon, Mr. Van Dort?" came a voice down the line when she picked up the receiver. It was Mr. Brieftrager. He had a switchboard and a telegraph and a post box in the back of the dry goods shop in the village. His voice was very high and young-sounding for an old man with such a long gray beard.
"This is Mary Van Dort," she said brightly, trying to sound normal. "I'd like to place a call to my friend Millie Clarke-Bolton. She's at...uh...Peartree House? I think? Or Peartree Grange."
There was a silence. "Does your father know you are using the telephone?" asked Mr. Brieftrager.
Why did everyone always ask her variations on that question? "He wouldn't mind if he knew," Mary assured him. "It's an emergency and I'll be quick."
Silence again. Then, "I've never heard of any Clarke-Boltons. Where is Peartree House?"
Mary thought, again wishing she'd paid more attention when Millie talked about holiday plans and invited her places. "Uh...let's see...oh, Oldcastle! Just outside Oldcastle, where that old castle is."
There was spluttering down the line. Mary held the earpiece away from her ear. "That's over seventy miles away! It would take ages to make a connection."
"I'm a very patient person," Mary lied. There was a heavy sigh.
"Hold, please," said Mr. Brieftrager.
And he'd been right, it took about five years for the connection to Millie Clarke-Bolton to go through. So she had plenty of time to stare at the bookcase across the room, at the blood-red spine of The Camera Fiend, and think about what she'd done.
She hadn't called back just any random ghost. No. It was the dead bride, Dad's dead bride. The more she turned it over in her head the more certain she became.
Dad never really talked about her. The corpse bride. Or his time among the dead. He'd answer questions if asked, and so would Mother. Sometimes he'd mention her offhand, like when he saw a blue butterfly or when a villager died or something, but it wasn't like they all sat around the parlor on a Sunday talking about the time Dad married a dead woman.
Her sisters knew more, and different, than Mary did. It was another one of those times where Mary effectively belonged to a different family. Lydia, Catherine, and Anne had all had lots of years to ask questions, giving their parents time to hone answers. Mary had been too little to remember the first time the story had been told. From what Catherine had told her, Dad had bungled the first telling of the corpse bride story badly. So badly that Lydia had almost decided to never forgive him for it. They'd worked it out, Mary figured, as they seemed normal now. And when she'd been old enough to ask about it, Dad had been matter of fact and had spent more time assuring her how much he loved Mother and them and also being alive and also never try to join the dead before it's your time.
That part had never bothered Mary. It was obvious her parents were mad for each other and enjoyed life and who cared what they'd done a lifetime ago. Mary had been more interested in hearing about how the bride had dug herself up out of the snow, the man who was only a head, the talking bugs, and the skeleton band. Much more interesting than the other part of the story. In fact, Mary had been asking about everyone's middle names when the dead bride came up for her.
But now she realized her Dad had been right about meddling with the dead. You really couldn't guess who might show up. Or why.
When the call finally went through, after a lifetime of clicks and hisses, Millie's voice was crackly and hollow, as though talking to her from inside a tin can.
"Mary, what a nice surprise!" came Millie's very posh and trilling voice.
"I have a question, please, Millie," Mary said in a rush. "Listen. What do you do if someone is possessed by a ghost?"
There was crackling. "….say about a post?" asked Millie. Mary clenched a fist in frustration. She bent very close to the mouthpiece.
"Can a person be possessed by a ghost?" Mary said, slowly and clearly.
"You're getting a goat?" Millie sounded confused. There was a buzz and when it cleared Millie was saying, "...live on a farm?"
For Pete's sake. "Millie. Can. A. Ghost. Possess. A. Person?" Mary held the earpiece tightly to the side of her head.
"Oh!" Millie replied, clearer now. "Yes, I think so! I would have to ask Mama or Madame Aurelia to be sure. But I've read about it!"
"How do you get the ghost out?" Mary asked urgently.
There was a hiss and a whine and Millie's answer was garbled. Mary only caught "medium" "holy water" and "ectoplasm" and maybe "wrenching"? Or retching?
"Didn't catch that, sorry!" said Mary, almost shouting.
"...said, find out what it wants!" said Millie into her ear.
"Where it haunts?" Mary repeated, confused. "I already know that!"
"No," came Millie's faraway reply. "Ask what it wants! It wants something…tell you, and help...might fix..."
"Oh," said Mary, through the ensuing crackling.
"Miss Van Dort," cut in Mr. Brieftrager's voice. Mary jumped. She'd completely forgotten that this was a party line. She hoped she hadn't said anything that would start any rumors. "Are you quite sure your father gave permission for this call? It does not sound like an emergency to me."
"It is!" Mary said crossly.
"Mary, I must go anyway!" came Millie's far-away voice. "Papa...the telephone...and the charges! Talking...you….summer, Mary!" There was a click.
"I am disconnecting," said Mr. Brieftrager.
Mary was about to slam the receiver back when she remembered her manners. "Thank you," she said tightly, and managed to hang up carefully. That had been mostly useless, but not entirely. She sat back in the desk chair and stared once more at the spine of The Camera Fiend.
"I'm not like you, Baumgartner," Mary said to the book. "I'm not like you. I'm not really a fiend. I care that I hurt someone. And I'm going to help. And I'm not even that broken up about the photograph."
Help. Offer the ghost help. What could the dead bride want? The story always went that she'd made peace with being dead and that was why she'd turned into butterflies. If she was happy being all the way dead and free why was she back? What could she want?
Unless…Mary thought, pressing her fingers to her lips. Ooh, maybe she had faked it? Could you fake that kind of thing? If a man's head could use roaches for feet anything was possible. And just biding her time in the ether, watching them. Watching Dad. Mary thought of the way she'd taken Dad's arm, the way she'd stared at him.
Mary gasped and shot up out of her chair. The dead bride was after Dad. Even though he was old and balding and she was in his daughter's body. That was disgusting. Oh! But maybe, maybe she intended to steal Mother's body next. And get to be the wife she'd always wanted to be.
In the back of her mind Mary realized that she was perhaps spinning this out a bit too far, but once the horrible idea occurred to her she couldn't shake it. And was it any stranger than anything else that had already happened? And the dead bride had lured her parents out into the garden! Mary was the only one who was onto her! Who knew what might be going on?
One of the study windows looked out into the side yard, and she could just see the edge of the garden where the lawn furniture was. There they were. It looked normal. They looked safe. But she had to go make sure.
And get that corpse bride out of her sister.